


Laurels, Blood, and Venom

by sciencefictioness



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blood, Canon Typical Issues, Gore, M/M, Slavery, Spartacus AU, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-21
Updated: 2017-02-21
Packaged: 2018-09-26 00:51:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9854699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sciencefictioness/pseuds/sciencefictioness
Summary: People were always impatient, always greedy, always selfish.Always, always predictable, and Laurent played them like chess pieces when he had the chance.Anything worth having, Laurent had to steal.So when his uncle offered him something, Laurent was more than wary.  It was like being offered a snake.  Laurent knew it would bite, but not precisely when, or how dangerous the poison might be.Except sometimes the Regent offered him things just to shame him, as he did every time they held the games.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yamswrites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yamswrites/gifts).



> This is, in essence, a fanfic written for two people.
> 
> This is the result of James and I yelling headcanons for a Spartacus Captive Prince AU at each other at 3 AM, accidentally talking ourselves into an OT3, and then realizing there were zero works for it, so I had to write it for us, of course. So here you go, the lamenmus fic no one wants, evidently, besides yams and me, but I'm gonna post it anyway just in case. Pretty soon there will be a Damen/Laurent/Erasmus tag made up of just the two of us, shouting incoherently.
> 
> This will be a story told in vignettes. Basically, I'll be writing out all the fun scenes I want to see, without all the connecting stuff in between. It might be a little disorienting, or leave you wondering what happened in between point A and point B and point C. If you're curious, feel free to ask, and I could always write those parts. Mostly this is just really self indulgent, putting our ideas down without all the tedious connecting bits that make it tiring to write some things. 
> 
> Anyway. This is a gladiator AU, not set in Rome but borrowing Roman terminology. A ludus aka ludus gladiatorius is basically somewhere that gladiators are trained for the arena. I will run away, now.

Good things did not come to those who waited, in Laurent’s experience.

 

The only good things in life were those he’d fought for in that quiet, careful, conniving way of his.  Not that he wasn’t strong, or brave, but living in the shadow of his uncle made such things nearly inconsequential.  The only tool of any use to Laurent in the Regent’s ludus was deception.  It was something that no amount of swords could take from him.  

 

The only power Laurent was allowed to have was the power he claimed for himself when no one was watching.

 

Laurent schemed, and plotted, and took delight in whatever small victories he could scrape together with his own subtle nudging and the inevitable folly of those around him.  People were always impatient, always greedy, always selfish.

 

Always, always predictable, and Laurent played them like chess pieces when he had the chance.

 

Anything worth having, Laurent had to steal.

 

So when his uncle offered him something, Laurent was more than wary.  It was like being offered a snake.  Laurent knew it would bite, but not precisely when, or how dangerous the poison might be.

  
Except sometimes the Regent offered him things just to shame him, as he did every time they held the games. 

 

_ ‘We’ll find a fighter that suits you yet, nephew,’  _ and then the Regent and his friends would proceed to pick out the most pitiful, worthless gladiator they could find, and offer to buy him for Laurent, if only he won his bout in the arena.

 

They never, ever won.  It was a running joke, Laurent's champion, as yet uncrowned.

 

Sometimes it was a slave pitted against a tiger or lion, other times one man thrown into the sands to face off against five or six opponents.  This time it was a prisoner bound for almost certain death, given a paltry little sword and no shield, standing opposite a half dozen armored soldiers.

 

_ ‘There he is, Laurent!  That one was made for you.  If he lives I’ll put your brand on him and he can be your champion.’   _ His uncle’s cohorts laughed loudly, and the Regent smiled at Laurent before glancing towards the sands, commanding him without words.

 

_ Look, boy.  Look, or I’ll make you. _

 

Laurent let his eyes flit disinterestedly down to the arena, taking a long swig of wine and refusing to comment.  

 

The prisoner was dressed in rags, but they didn’t conceal the unmistakable fact that he’d once been a soldier.  He was dark skinned, heavily muscled, dark hair falling shaggy around his face.  Obviously Akielon, or at least of Akielon heritage.  Blood soaked through most of his clothes, and one of his eyes was black and nearly swollen shut.  An open cut dripped fresh crimson down his cheek, and he walked with a limp, favoring his left leg.  His free arm was wrapped protectively around his middle, the fabric there a darker shade of red, and Laurent absently wondered what sort of wound he was nursing beneath it.

 

All in all he was a dead man walking.

 

And yet.

 

He held his head up, watching the soldiers now circling him with sharp eyes, fist held tight around his weapon.  There was something in his expression that Laurent recognized, even from far away, even through a haze of dust and the glare of the sun.  Something Laurent saw every day, reflected in the water of the baths or the blown glass of his mirrors.  Calculating.

 

The prisoner was calculating.  Was thinking.  Was ten steps ahead of the men around him, and they didn’t even know it.  They were as different as day and night, and yet Laurent felt a kinship there.

 

The brotherhood of the underestimated.

 

Then the soldiers moved, and he moved, and the sand was painted red.

 

His uncle stared in disbelief, and Laurent went home that day with a slave in tow, bloody and bruised but breathing.

 

If only just.

 

………………………

 

Damianos could feel his heart beating.  Not in his chest, but on his side, where his fingers pressed into open slash there, trying to stem the flow of blood.  It gushed out over his knuckles, and slipped down his wrist, and he tried to ignore the dizziness in his head and the sting of his wounds and the ache in his throat.  

 

Tried to ignore the way the whole world was going fuzzy, blinking the fog back, trying to focus,  _ focus, Damen, focus.  _

 

His father’s voice echoed in his head, sure and strong and leaving no room for argument.

 

_ Until your heart stops beating.  Until your blood runs dry. _

 

_ Until the goddess herself shows up to drag you to the afterlife. _

 

_ Keep fighting. _

 

Damianos tightened his grip on his weapon, however pitiful it might be, and eyed his enemies.  Six of them, and they were too confident, too cocky, too certain of their victory.  They’d won the fight without landing a blow, and it was his favorite kind of foe to stand against.  Damianos loved being understimated.

 

Never more than in that moment. 

 

He catalogued them, the way they moved, the weapons they held.  Spears, swords, a trident, an axe.  There was blood in his eyes, and dirt in his mouth.  His lip was busted, and it hurt to smile, but Damianos couldn’t help it.

 

The sun shone down too bright from the heavens, and Damianos felt eyes on him that were heavier than those of the rest of the crowd.  He fought the urge to search for them, whoever it was picking him apart from afar.  He didn’t have the luxury, couldn’t look away.  The noise died down, but only in his head, everything quieting until it was nothing but him.

 

His breathing, ragged and shallow but rhythmic.  His feet shifting bare across the sands.  His hands flexing against the leather hilt of his sword.  The world was ethereal, and Damianos tasted rust.

 

His enemies moved, and he moved, and Damianos was painted red.

 

Then he fell, and fell, and fell, and wondered if he’d ever rise again.


End file.
